


Clutter-Free

by MissDavis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, 5+1 Things, Cleaning, Dinner, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Illness, Minor Injuries, tidying up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-07-28 13:46:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7642939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDavis/pseuds/MissDavis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 times John made Sherlock clean up the flat and one time he didn't have to.</p><p>Chapter 1: The List<br/>Chapter 2: First Aid<br/>Chapter 3: The Fridge<br/>Chapter 4: Dinner<br/>Chapter 5: First Kiss<br/>Chapter 6: Sherlock's Room</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The List

"Where is it?" 

"What?" John looked up from his laptop. He was almost done with the write-up for last week's case. All it needed was a title, and he had several ideas, no thanks to Sherlock, who had no appreciation at all for alliteration.

"I said, where is it?" Sherlock's voice rose as he spun in a circle, dressing gown billowing, his movement hindered by the fact that there was very little open space in the crowded sitting room. 

John pulled his own legs in closer to his armchair so Sherlock wouldn't bump into him. "What are you even looking for?"

Sherlock stopped mid-spin and tugged at his hair. "Three pages, single-spaced, double-sided, ten-point type, printed on an ink-jet printer on 90 gsm A4 paper. It's a list."

Since they did not have a case on at the moment, John was fairly certain that finding the missing papers was not as urgent as Sherlock's behavior seemed to indicate. "A list of what?"

"Types of tobacco ash! What else would I be looking for?"

"Are you still working on that?"

"Of course I am. I've only got 207 types of ash so far. There are at least 30 more I need to study."

John scratched at his nose and then turned his attention back to his laptop. "You typed it up. Just print another copy."

"No! I made notes on the print-out. Extensive notes, new research. I can't just print another copy." 

"Well, haven't you memorized all the notes? You know, in your mind palace thing-y?" Sherlock was always going on about how superior his memory techniques were, so John didn't really understand why this was a problem. " Just re-write the notes you made."

"No! I can't! It would be inefficient to commit the information to memory before the list was complete." He held his hands in front of himself as he spoke, fists clenched so tightly that his arms shook. "That's why I took notes instead. Otherwise I'd have to reorganize my mind palace every time I made an addition. Obviously." 

John could tell that he wasn't going to be able to get any work done until Sherlock found his list. "We'll find it," he said. He closed the laptop and stood, putting his hands on his hips as he surveyed the many piles of papers scattered throughout the sitting room. "It might take a little while," he admitted. "You sure do have a mess in here."

"I do not have a mess!" Sherlock reached for the nearest pile, a stack of file folders balanced on the edge of the mantel. "This is not a mess! I know exactly where everything is! These are the witness interviews from the Phillips case last week. Lestrade thinks they're still in Donovan's filing cabinet. I'll have them back before either realizes they're missing." He dropped the folders onto the floor; they hit the stone of the hearth and spilled out half their contents. Sherlock spread them farther with his foot as he stepped over them. "Here are the clippings about the Truesdale kidnapping. These are photos from Mrs. Hudson's grand-niece's christening. I'm supposed to be scanning them to a memory stick for her. Here's my fake passport from the Belize trip. Here's yours. See? Everything is right where it should be except for the list of ash!"

"Okay, calm down."

Sherlock did not calm down. Instead he turned on John. "You must have moved it. Where did you put it?"

John backed up a step, raising his hands. "I didn't touch a thing. I'll help you find it. You just have to pick up a little bit. We'll find it." 

"No, we won't. It's gone. Mrs. Hudson probably threw it out when she was 'cleaning'." He threw up his hands and then flopped dramatically into his chair.

John doubted that Mrs. Hudson had been in to clean lately. He was the one who emptied the kitchen bin and did the washing up every time they ran out of dishes, and nothing else in the flat had been cleaned in ages. He was afraid to even think about what Sherlock's room might look like. He kept the door closed most of the time, but the few glimpses John had got had not been pretty.

Sherlock had now progressed from outraged anger to a more pitiful agitation; he was curled up in his chair, arms wrapped around his legs, rocking and muttering under his breath. John was afraid he was moments away from storming out of the flat in his slippers and dressing gown to buy cigarettes. He couldn't let that happen, not only for Sherlock's health but because he didn't want the flat to start stinking of smoke. "Hey. It's all right. I'll help you." He took two steps toward Sherlock and then reached out and put his hand on his shoulder, stroking briefly over the tense muscle beneath his dressing gown.

Sherlock froze. John's instinct was to pull away, but he was afraid that would make it even more awkward. And was Sherlock really so unused to physical contact that his reaction when someone tried to comfort him was to become even more tense? That wasn't right; it wasn't healthy. John kept his hand where it was, working his thumb over the knotted muscle, and after a moment was rewarded with Sherlock—well, maybe not relaxing, per se, but unfreezing, at least. "Tell me where you were when you last had the list."

Sherlock lowered his head; his shoulder shifted beneath John's thumb and John added his other fingers to the impromptu massage. "In here. I was in this room. It was a week ago Wednesday, when you worked that double shift and I had nothing to do all day. I made a lot of notes."

"Were you smoking?" Of course he was. How else would he have been studying the properties of tobacco ash?

He felt Sherlock's body tighten again beneath his hand. "You weren't home. I had the window open."

"All right." John took a step to the side so he was directly behind Sherlock and brought his other hand up, rubbing both shoulders with long, slow strokes now. "So you were making notes while you smoked. Maybe the list is on the desk by the window?"

Sherlock nodded, the ends of his hair brushing against the backs of John's hands. "Perhaps." He drew the word out, his whole demeanor seemingly yielding to the effects of John's touch.

"All right then." John gave a final squeeze to Sherlock's shoulders and then let go, stepping back. "Start there."

"Me?" Sherlock twisted his neck to look back over his shoulder at John. "I thought you were going to help me?"

"I am helping you. I just figured out where to look and now I'm going to go make tea and maybe go see if Mrs. Hudson has any biscuits for us."

"But you need to help me look." Sherlock turned all the way around and blinked up at John, who wasn't about to fall for that. 

"Oh, no. I am not touching your papers. I might mess up one of your piles. You look. I'll cheer you on."

Sherlock bit at his lower lip and John stared at him, then turned on his heel and headed toward the kitchen. He was rewarded moments later with the sound of Sherlock heaving an exaggerated sigh and then crossing the room to begin digging through the papers on the desk.

John boiled and brewed the tea and ran downstairs for biscuits, taking longer than he needed to, knowing that as long as he could still hear the soft thumps of piles of paper being moved instead of shouting or breaking glass then Sherlock was doing okay on his own.

Eventually he made his way back upstairs, plate of biscuits in his hand. Sherlock was in his chair again, sitting sideways, legs over one arm. 

"Did you find it then?" John set the plate down on the little table next to him. 

"No," Sherlock said. "You were gone too long. Tea's probably cold." He steepled his hands beneath his chin and stared at some indeterminate spot on the wall next to the fireplace.

"Sorry," John said. "You could've got up and got it yourself."

"Hmm. I was busy looking for my list. I straightened up." He waved a hand toward the desk and then returned his fingers to their place beneath his chin.

John looked around the room. Sherlock had straightened up, quite a bit. Every elevated flat surface was still covered in paperwork, yes, but the piles were much tidier and there were no longer files on the floor or random sheets of paper scattered on the seats of the chairs. "Looks good," he said. "But you didn't find your list?" Maybe Sherlock had taken the papers into his bedroom. Maybe he'd used them for kindling in a fit of laziness. Maybe Moriarty or Mycroft had broken into the flat and stolen the papers just to play with their heads.

"Nope."

"Okay." He looked around again, frowning. He really did not want to have to start looking at every piece of paper in every pile himself, but it seemed important enough to Sherlock that he wasn't going to let the matter drop. Although, he did seem to have stopped looking himself. "Did you give up?"

"No. I'm thinking. This is my thinking pose." Sherlock lowered his chin farther, his fingers pressing against the skin of his jaw.

"Oo-kay—" John started to turn away, debating whether to bring Sherlock his tea or just drink his own in the kitchen.

"Come here!"

John jumped in surprise and then berated himself for doing so. He glared at Sherlock instead.

Sherlock actually looked contrite. "Sorry. That came out rather harsher than I intended. I just, erm, what you did before? That was helpful. For the thinking process, I mean." He turned and put his feet on the floor, sitting upright in the proper direction on the chair. "If you don't mind?"

John blanked on his meaning for a moment. "You want me to...rub your shoulders again?"

"If you don't mind," Sherlock repeated. He squirmed in the chair so his back was flush against the cushion, though he seemed to prefer to stare at the rug in front of his feet rather than meet John's eyes.

John knew it couldn't have been easy for him to ask, and anyway he didn't mind helping Sherlock out, didn't mind touching him, didn't mind how his shoulders were slim but powerful beneath the silkiness of his dressing gown. He blinked his eyes shut long enough to remind himself that Sherlock didn't feel things that way, then crossed the room to stand behind his chair. He put his hands on his shoulders again, noticing immediately that Sherlock was not as tense as he had been before. He slid his fingers across the smooth fabric, wishing he knew more actual massage techniques, and then Sherlock shouted, "The slipper!"

"What?" Sherlock was wearing his slippers; John was fully dressed and had on loafers and socks.

"The Persian slipper! I smoked all the cigarettes I had in there, then was too tired to get up and put the list back in its spot on the bookcase." Sherlock brought his hands up to his own shoulders, briefly covering John's fingers with his own, then popped up out of the chair, falling to his knees to root around beneath the sofa. He emerged a moment later with an old-fashioned slipper and a broken tobacco pipe. He dropped the pipe on the floor and waved the slipper in the air. "Found it!" 

Sure enough, there were three sheets of closely-typed print folded into the toe of the slipper. Sherlock tossed the slipper back under the sofa and laid the papers out on the coffee table, smoothing them with careful, precise movements that reminded John of the massage he had just given. "Thank you, John," he said, without looking up from the list.

"Any time." John watched him for a moment longer, but Sherlock had lost himself in re-reading the notes he had made. "Any time," he repeated, and sighed. "I'll just go make us some fresh cups of tea." As least the flat was a little bit neater now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I know Sherlock's bedroom always appears to be neat in the show, but just bear with me.


	2. First Aid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimers/warnings: I am not British and know nothing about medicine so feel free to point out any inaccuracies. I keep telling myself to stop writing stories with medical stuff in them and I keep not listening to myself. Also, if there are any typos, let me know. I didn't have a chance to proofread as many times as I usually do.
> 
> It's not super-graphic, but there is a description of someone getting stitches in this, so you might want to avoid it if that is something that bothers you.

It had been an exciting case, John had to admit, and watching Sherlock solve it had been amazing, though he could've done without the chase that ended when the second suspect jumped out from behind a parked car and lunged at John with a pocket knife. Sherlock had just tackled his partner to the ground and John had been focused on that; he managed to disarm his attacker, but not before the man slashed at his arm, cutting through three layers of clothing and drawing blood.

The police had been right behind them, and an ambulance not far behind them, but John had refused medical treatment at the scene. The cut had stopped bleeding on its own and anyway by that point it was well after midnight and all he wanted to do was go home to Baker Street.

When they finally did get home, he took off his jacket and jumper, pleased to see that they could both be repaired if he took them to a tailor or maybe asked Mrs. Hudson. Beneath the jumper, his shirtsleeve was plastered to his arm with dried blood, much more than he had realized at the time he'd been hurt. 

He stepped into the loo and used a wet flannel to clean up the blood a bit before carefully pulling the tattered cloth away from the wound. The shirt was ruined; the blood would wash out, but the sleeve had been slashed badly enough that it wasn't worth trying to save. He peeled off the shirt, the process made more difficult by the fact that it was his left arm that had been injured.

He dropped the shirt into the bin and examined the cut. The motions of undressing had started it bleeding again. It was a fairly straightforward knife wound: about 5 centimeters long, almost a centimeter deep, no muscle damage that he could see, hurt like hell. The problem was the location—on the top side of his arm, just below the elbow joint, so every movement he made with his dominant hand pulled the edges of the wound apart. He could try to use butterfly strips or glue to hold it shut but he knew that if he saw such a cut professionally he would strongly recommend stitches.

Maybe it could wait until morning. The closest walk-in urgent care centers weren't open right now, and turning up in A&E at this time of night with such a minor emergency would guarantee a wait of hours. He could call Sarah or Mike or someone to ask them to stitch him up, but while he knew they would do it, he didn't want to impose. He just wanted to fall into bed and sleep for eight or twelve hours; maybe if he stayed very still as he slept, the cut would have a chance to heal on its own. He could throw on a few butterfly strips and cover it with gauze and tape and hope for the best.

The cupboard with the plasters and other first aid supplies was in the hall; he opened the door to step out of the loo and nearly collided with Sherlock, who rather than letting John pass by just stood in the way until John told him to move. "I'm bloody exhausted and I'm bleeding again and I want to tape this up and go to bed."

Sherlock stepped even more directly in front of him. "Let me see it." He grabbed John's hand and yanked it up, peering at the wound, which of course started seeping blood again as a result.

John pulled his hand away. "Move. I need a plaster."

"You need more than a plaster. You need stitches." 

"Yeah, I know. I'm going to wait until morning and see how it is then. I'm exhausted."

"I thought you said it wasn't that bad when that short paramedic tried to look at it."

"It's not that bad," John said. "It's just a little too long and a little too deep, and every time I move my elbow it pulls open and starts bleeding again." He looked up sharply at Sherlock. "And if you tell me to stop moving my elbow I will punch you. You know I can punch right-handed."

Sherlock's lips curled up a little at that. "But you can't stitch yourself up right-handed."

"No. Unfortunately. I could try, but—" He lifted his right hand and held it a few inches over the wound on his left arm, wondering if it was worth it to try it anyway. They had all the supplies he would need—he'd had to sew Sherlock up a couple times already in the months since they'd lived here—and he was almost ambidextrous, but not quite. He sighed. "I don't think I can do it. I'll just wait until morning."

"I can do it for you." 

"What? No!" John pulled his arm back against his torso, instinctively protective, and felt a twinge as the wound gaped wider with the movement. 

"You're tired, you're still bleeding, you don't want to go to A&E at this hour, you can't stitch it yourself. The logical option is to let me do it for you." 

"No, the logical option is to leave the medical procedures to medical professionals."

"Minor medical procedure," Sherlock said. "Very minor. There's no muscle damage, the edges of the cut are smooth and straight. I should wash my hands first."

"Yeah—no! No." John cupped his right hand over the cut and tried to elbow his way past Sherlock . If he could just cover the wound and then stop moving it would be fine. More or less. 

"I can do it, John. Trust me."

"Have you ever given anyone stitches before?" The expression on Sherlock's face immediately revealed his mistake. He rephrased the question. "Have you ever given anyone stitches while they were still alive?" 

Sherlock's gaze darted to the side. "I know what I'm doing. As long as we clean it properly, there's little risk of infection or complication. If I do a bad job, you can get it redone tomorrow at the clinic. There's no reason not to let me try."

John pursed his lips and tried to think of a reason. "It'll hurt."

"Your suture kit has lidocaine in it, does it not?"

He looked up at Sherlock, wondering why he was even considering this. "I'll admit that you might be able to do a half-decent job of it, but there's no place in this flat that's even remotely clean enough. You'll just end up introducing bacteria into the wound."

Sherlock grinned. "You get the lidocaine. By the time your arm is numb, the kitchen table will be sterile enough for surgery."

John rolled his eyes. "Sterile?"

Sherlock tipped his head. "Sterile-ish. Sterile enough. It'll be cleaner than it is now, and cleaner than the loo." He turned his back to John and strode toward the kitchen, slipping his suit jacket off and rolling up his sleeves.

"That's not hard to accomplish," John muttered, and opened the cupboard to find the kit with the suture supplies. God, he must be tired if he was willing to let Sherlock do this. 

He grabbed the kit and carried it into the kitchen. Sherlock had started cleaning already; he'd cleared off the table completely, piling all of his chemistry equipment in a jumble on the worktop instead. So maybe it didn't really count as cleaning as John understood it—that would require putting stuff away where it belonged—but by Sherlock's standards it was progress.

John pulled out one of the chairs with his foot and dropped down into it. He held the medical kit on his lap. "You need to wipe down the table."

"I know." Sherlock opened a series of cabinet doors before finding what he was looking for: a large bottle of isopropyl alcohol. John watched as he pulled a paper towel off of the roll and soaked it in alcohol, then diligently cleaned off the table.

"There." Sherlock tossed the used towel into the bin. "Clean enough to eat off of."

John laughed and set the suture kit down on the table. "You do realize most people keep their kitchen tables that clean every day."

"I doubt most people scrub their tables with rubbing alcohol."

"No, because most people don't need to decontaminate their tables in order to perform minor surgery." He popped open the kit and started to take out the supplies they would need.

"Here, let me."

John shooed him away. "I can do this part." He pulled a glove onto his right hand so he could apply the lidocaine to the area around the wound without numbing his fingers. "Why don't you pick up a little more? Set all those beakers to soak in the sink."

"Now you're just taking advantage of me so I'll clean up the kitchen."

"Yes, I am. If it weren't for you and your bloody insistence on running ahead of the police, I'd be asleep in bed right now instead of sitting here about to get stitched up by a madman."

Sherlock grinned and turned on the tap to fill up the sink. He added a generous dollop of washing up liquid and then dropped all of the dirty chemistry beakers and tubes into the basin. 

"Good," John said. "Now is there anything hazardous in this room that should've been thrown out weeks ago?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "As long as nothing gets near your arm, there's no danger to having them in the kitchen."

John lowered his chin and stared up at Sherlock until Sherlock gave in and found a zippered plastic bag that he filled with a variety of unidentifiable items collected from the worktops, the microwave and the shelves over the sink. 

"Happy now?" Sherlock asked when he had finished and disposed of the bag.

"Very much so. And my arm is starting to feel weird, so the lidocaine's working."

Sherlock smiled at him. "All right, you stay put. I'm going to have a quick shower and then I'll be ready to stitch you up."

John would've settled for just having Sherlock wash his hands, but it would still take another 15 minutes before the numbing cream was fully effective, so he nodded and leaned back in the chair. Exhausted as he was, he was in no danger of falling asleep with the wooden back digging into his shoulders.

Sherlock showered and returned in under ten minutes. John was amazed, until he saw that he had forgone his usual after-shower routine and simply combed his hair back from his face. John had a sudden urge to run his fingers through the wet curls and return them to their correct positions. He gave a little shake of his head to dispel the idea and sat up straighter in the chair. At least with his hair slicked back Sherlock wouldn't drip water all over the newly clean table.

Sherlock dragged the second chair around so it was next to John. "Numb yet?"

John poked at the edge of the area where he'd applied the cream. "Yeah. I think I'm ready." He exhaled and straightened his arm, laying it across a towel Sherlock had placed on the table. The bleeding had stopped for now, but the edges of the cut still gaped. He reached for a foil-wrapped alcohol wipe but Sherlock grabbed it at the same time. 

"You just sit back and let me do this." 

"Fine." John let go of the wipe. "Put gloves on."

Sherlock obeyed, then used the wipe to clean off the excess lidocaine on John's arm, carefully swiping away from the wound. John couldn't complain about his technique, at least not yet. "Do I need to irrigate it with Betadine?" Sherlock motioned to the plastic syringe.

"I don't think so. I rinsed it out pretty good earlier, and it wasn't dirty at all."

"Hmm." Sherlock popped the cap on the bottle of antiseptic anyway.

John raised an eyebrow. "If you really want to. Dilute it with water, though."

"I just want to be thorough," Sherlock said as he mixed Betadine and water in a clean cup and then filled the irrigation syringe.

John hissed at the feel of the cleaning solution as Sherlock squirted it over the cut, though the sensation was more irritating than painful. Sherlock dabbed up the excess liquid with a piece of gauze and then picked up the needle and thread.

He shouldn't have been surprised at Sherlock's gentleness, really, when he thought about it. He'd known Sherlock could have a precise, delicate touch when he chose to: it was what allowed him to play the violin, or make such accurate measurements with his chemistry equipment. He'd just never had that careful touch applied to him before. It was nice. It would've been a lot more enjoyable under different circumstances, true, but it was still nice.

He could feel the needle as it went through the skin, an unpleasant pressure that was just short of actual pain. He had had surgeries and a gash on his forehead and another low on his back sewn up in the past, but he realized he had never watched anyone giving him stitches before. It was a bit disconcerting, and he was glad it was Sherlock treating him now, rather than a stranger he might not be able to trust.

And he was right to trust Sherlock, despite his initial hesitation. Not only had he adhered to all of John's rules about hygiene, he was doing a very good job with the sutures. John watched as he carefully sewed a half-dozen small, neat stitches, joining the edges of the wound. He was perhaps a bit slower than an experienced doctor would've been, but the end result was nearly indistinguishable. John decided that as long as the cut healed cleanly, he would let Sherlock remove the stitches for him when they were ready to come out.

"There. All done." Sherlock sat back to look at his handiwork and then made a loud smacking sound with his lips. Surprised, John looked up in time to see Sherlock's face turn bright red.

"Sorry, sorry." Sherlock stared down at his own hands as he tugged the disposable gloves off. "My mum used to always do a kiss like that after she bandaged me up and I...er, it's very late and I'm very tired. Sorry."

John swallowed a chuckle. "It's quite all right." He lifted his arm from the table and carefully bent his elbow, testing the stitches. "You did an excellent job. Thank you." 

Sherlock smiled again, clearly pleased with himself. "You're welcome. Any time. Well, try not to get stabbed again, but you know. The offer stands."

This time John did laugh. Sherlock rarely sounded so proud and so flustered at the same time. "I think we both need to go to bed."

"Yes, yes." Sherlock stood, pushing the chair back from the table. He looked down at the dirtied medical equipment and then over at John. "You're going to make me clean this up right now, aren't you?"

"No, no." John shook his head and stood up, not as gracefully as Sherlock. "We can leave it till morning." He took a step away from the table and was surprised to find himself a bit wobbly, and even more surprised to feel Sherlock's hand on his back, steadying him.

"All right?" Sherlock's voice was gentle.

"Yes. Just stood up too fast. Tired."

Sherlock nodded. "You can use the loo first. If I hear any crashing noises I'll come rescue you."

"Thank you."

Sherlock shrugged. "That's what friends do, right? Stitch up their flatmates and then pick them up off the floor when they collapse from blood loss and exhaustion."

John laughed again. "You are a loon. I'm going to bed. You should, too. Tomorrow I'm going to make you fetch me stuff because my arm hurts."

"Sounds like fun. I'm not cleaning any more rooms for you, though."

"Hmm. We'll see," John said. "We'll see."


	3. The Fridge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for slightly gross bodily functions in this chapter, nothing too explicit though.

John was used to being exposed to all sorts of germs. The first few years that he worked as a doctor, he came down with a minor illness every month or so: colds, coughs, stomach viruses, strep throat, one bout of pinkeye that took two weeks to clear up. But after those initial exposures, he built up enough immunity that he stopped getting sick; he knew he couldn't possibly have had every contagious disease there was, but it sure seemed that way. Which was why it was such a surprise when he was suddenly, violently ill late one Saturday afternoon. 

"John? Are you okay? I heard—oh." Sherlock stopped in the doorway of the kitchen. "Couldn't make it to the loo, I see." 

"Shut up." John reached for a piece of kitchen roll and scrubbed it across his mouth, then turned on the tap to try to rinse out the sink. Luckily there was nothing too solid to go down the drain, only the remains of the soup he'd eaten for lunch. He watched a half-digested noodle get caught in the sink strainer and knew he was going to be sick again. "Oh God." He retched into the sink, bringing up the rest of his lunch and then a little bit of the croissant he'd had for breakfast as well. He was never going to eat soup or croissants again. He was never going to—"Sherlock." 

"Yes, John?" Sherlock stood next to him now, and seemed to be unusually attentive. 

"Sherlock, the soup that was in the fridge?" He stayed leaning over the sink, just in case. 

"Oh." That was all Sherlock said, but it was enough. 

"How old was it?" 

"Not that old. Couple days at most." 

"What was in it?" 

"Ah, yes. That is the question you should be asking." 

"No, don't tell me." John peeked over at Sherlock, who was fidgeting with the ties of his dressing gown. "Will it kill me?" 

"No." Sherlock paused before repeating it more firmly. "No. You don't have a compromised immune system and are relatively young and in good health, so no. It won't kill you. Your body should be able to expel the toxins with no long-term effects." 

"Oh, God." He lowered his head, arms braced against the edge of the worktop, and took a few deep breaths, waiting to see what his stomach would do. It seemed okay. Maybe it was over. Maybe he'd just needed to purge the soup and now that it was out of his system he'd be fine. 

"Are you going to vomit again?" 

"No. But—" He barreled past Sherlock, pushing him aside with more force than was strictly necessary, but this was his fault—why would he leave poisoned soup in the refrigerator? 

John lost track of how long he sat in the loo. It was long enough that his legs were unsteady when he finally felt it was safe to stand up. He zipped and buttoned his trousers, pulling off his belt because the thought of constricting his waist any more than necessary was too much to bear. He was bent over the basin, splashing cold water on his face, when Sherlock knocked on the door, startling him enough that he nearly banged his head on the tap. 

Sherlock didn't want for a response; he opened the door and let himself into the loo. John looked into the mirror and glared at Sherlock's reflection, too exhausted to turn around or yell at him for barging in. 

"I heard the tap running so I knew you were off the toilet." Sherlock scuffed his slippers against the floor and looked somewhat apologetic. "I threw out the rest of the soup." 

John groaned at the mention of the word. He wanted to be angry and shouting but he didn't have the energy. 

"Would you like me to make you some tea?" 

"God, no, please." 

"Sorry, sorry." Sherlock stepped back for a moment, then came closer to the sink and John. "You should at least drink some water, if you can." He picked up his own water glass from the vanity and reached past John to fill it from the tap. The look on his face and the concern in his voice were so genuine that John took the glass from him even though he didn't think he could drink yet. 

He took a small sip and swished it around in his mouth, but his stomach still felt far too rebellious for him to dare to swallow. He spat it into the sink, then leaned against the side again, looking down at the ceramic basin. 

"You do need to replenish your fluids somehow, John." Sherlock sounded a bit more like himself now, telling John what to do. John almost smiled. 

He nodded instead. "I know. Give me a few minutes. If nothing else happens, I'll try to drink some." 

"All right." Sherlock continued to hover in the doorway, hands fluttering as if he didn't know what to do with them. "Is there anything I can do for you?" 

John shook his head, slowly, because the ill feeling had spread through his entire body. If Sherlock hadn't admitted to contaminating the soup he would have thought he had flu. "I just need. To lie down for a bit." He turned toward Sherlock and the door, reluctant to let go of the sink until he was sure he could stand under his own power. 

Sherlock reached a hand out but stopped short of steadying him; John looked up and saw him swallow. "Can you make it? You still seem shaky." 

John nodded and shuffled a few steps toward the door, Sherlock walking backwards ahead of him, clearly concerned. As he should be, since this was entirely his fault. 

John made it through the door and out into the hall before pausing, checking to make sure he didn't need to return to the loo before he moved too far away. 

"You can use my bed, if that's easier." 

John glanced to his left, at Sherlock's bedroom door. It would be easier—Sherlock's room offered direct access to the loo. He raised and lowered his chin once, a careful nod, and followed Sherlock down the hall. 

Sherlock opened the door and stepped aside, giving John space to pass, but John stopped in his tracks, stomach starting to rumble again. 

Sherlock cleared his throat and then sprang into action, sweeping a pile of empty candy wrappers and crisps bags off the bed. "I can clear off a space. The sheets were changed last week. It does smell a bit oniony, but I'll open the window—." 

"No, no. It's all right. I think I want my own bed, no offense, I just...." He could see Sherlock look a bit crestfallen but felt too sick to do anything about it. The odor of old snacks and sweaty socks coming from Sherlock's room was too much to bear, and he didn't want to wait for Sherlock to pick up all the dirty laundry and leftover food scraps that were causing the problem. 

He turned the other way and trudged back through the kitchen, glancing at the sink as he passed—he'd given it a rinse after he'd been sick in it, but it needed to be scrubbed more thoroughly. Later, he would do it later, when he felt human again. 

He made it into the sitting area but the thought of climbing the stairs to his own room was overwhelming. Instead he let himself collapse onto the sofa; the cushions weren't exactly comfortable, but at least the leather was cool. He curled on his side, staring vacantly at the coffee table in front of him. It was covered with papers and a computer keyboard missing half its keys, of course, but at least there wasn't anything that smelled bad on it. He let his eyes roam over the mess, trying to form words from the letters remaining on the keyboard as a way to distance himself from the cramping in his stomach. 

"John?" He came back to himself at the gentle tone of Sherlock's voice, even though all he wanted was to be left alone to recover. "I thought you might want this." Sherlock held out a hot water bottle. 

"Oh, ta. That's a great idea." He reached up to take it and felt his intestines swish again—not horribly, but enough to make him grimace and clamp his hands across his middle. He squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the pain to pass; when he opened them again he found Sherlock kneeling on the floor next to the sofa. 

"What are you—ah...." John tensed for a moment and then moved his hands out of the way, allowing Sherlock to press the hot water bottle against his stomach. The heat spread quickly through the layers of his shirt and vest, almost immediately providing relief, though whether it was more physical or psychological, John couldn't be sure. He exhaled and let his whole body relax into the warmth. 

"Better?" Sherlock murmured, and shifted his position next to John. "Not too hot?" 

"No," John replied and let his eyes drift shut again. After a few moments he felt Sherlock's free hand brush over his forehead. His fingers were cool. Lovely. 

"I'll get the fan so you don't get too warm." Sherlock stood up and John immediately felt his loss; he had to hold the water bottle in place himself, and though he didn't like to be touched too much when he felt this sick, he hadn't minded Sherlock's fingers on his skin. 

Sherlock fetched the tall pedestal fan from behind a box that had been shoved in the corner of the room since they'd moved in. He plugged it in and positioned it in front of the sofa. "Rotating or still?" 

"Rotating," John said. Sherlock flicked the switch; the sudden rush of air across John's face was beautiful. 

"Okay?" 

"Mmm." John couldn't muster any more strength for a reply. It was late-afternoon but he felt like he'd been awake for days and he was hopeful that with the help of the fan and the hot water bottle he could sleep. 

He was aware of Sherlock watching him as he started to doze; after some time he heard him move away, into the kitchen, and then the muffled sounds of the fridge being emptied. Good: he was binning everything inedible. Maybe he would scrub off that stain in the bottom of the crisper; it was starting to look a little fuzzy. 

John tried to focus on breathing slowly so he could relax into a deeper sleep, but his mind insisted on replaying the afternoon's events. Not his illness—he didn't need to think about that—but Sherlock. Sherlock's behavior. It was surprising, to say the least. Yes, he should feel guilty for making John sick, but John would have predicted that at most Sherlock would've called Mrs. Hudson upstairs to look after him. Instead he'd been extraordinarily concerned and attentive and tender all on his own. Those were not Sherlock's default settings, not by any means. 

It was almost as if Sherlock cared for him. Well, of course he did—they were friends. But John thought maybe today had held hints of more than that. Maybe.... He couldn't think about it right now. He needed to recover first and then apply his full attention to the issue. The issue of how Sherlock felt. About him. John didn't have a mind palace but that didn't mean he couldn't retain certain events for later examination. He closed his eyes and let the drone of the fan and the memory of Sherlock's fingers on his forehead lull him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm done hurting John in this fic--the rest of the chapters should be free of yucky bodily functions, yay! (Hmm. I guess that might depend on your definition of yucky. There will no more painful bodily functions--how's that?)


	4. Dinner

John intended to spend time figuring out what exactly Sherlock might think about their relationship, but it was harder to do than he expected. Nearly everything Sherlock did or said could be interpreted in more than one way, and before John had a chance to reach any conclusions, they had a case that started with a private client and ended up including Scotland Yard and a half-dozen news reporters who wanted to know how they solved it. John barely had time to tell Sherlock how amazing he was before the cameras descended. Sherlock growled his way through a couple of questions and then abruptly walked out of the interview. John didn't even bother apologizing to the reporters; he just ran after Sherlock and climbed into a cab next to him.

They settled themselves in the back of the cab and Sherlock held up a hand before John had time to say anything. "I know. 'Be polite, Sherlock.' Tedious. Every question they asked me had a self-evident answer. There was no reason for us to stick around."

John realized he probably should've stopped Sherlock from being rude, but he'd been too busy thinking about how close they were standing and how it would look in the photos in the paper. Would Sherlock notice if John put his hand on his waist? And if he did notice would he object or reciprocate? John glanced up at the taxi driver, who was paying no attention to them, and cleared his throat. One way to find out. He knew how to flirt. "Well, at least they had time to snap a few pictures. You're wearing your purple shirt—that always makes you look good."

"Hmm." Sherlock turned his whole torso toward John—that was a definite sign he was interested, right? John felt his face heating, not in embarrassment but in pleasure. He angled himself on the seat of the cab so he was facing Sherlock, their knees touching.

"You have mud in your hair," Sherlock said, and John frowned. Not what he'd been expecting to hear, but he'd tackled one of the culprits to the ground and held him until the police had arrived, so he wasn't too surprised to find out he was dirty. It would've been nice if Sherlock had mentioned it before they faced the news cameras.

"Right there." Sherlock gestured at his own head and John mirrored him, raising his hand to his left temple. 

He combed his fingers through the tangle he found there, scattering small pieces of dirt across the seat of the cab. "Ugh. I need to get a haircut."

"I like it shaggy like that," Sherlock said, and turned away to look out the window, breaking the almost-intimate contact of their legs and leaving John to guess at his motivations once more. There'd been nothing suggestive about his tone, but that wasn't something you said to a friend. Was it? It didn't help that Sherlock never followed any of the social conventions that most of the world adhered to. He said and did what he wanted to. Which apparently included complimenting John's appearance and then not saying another word until the cab pulled up to their flat on Baker Street. 

Sherlock was out of the car as soon as it stopped. John grimaced and paid the driver, then stood on the pavement for a moment, checking to see if he had mud anyplace else he didn't know about. No, just his hair, though he felt gritty enough that a shower seemed a good idea.

He pushed open the door to the building to find that Sherlock he had been detained in the foyer by Mrs. Hudson. She fluttered over to him as he entered. "Oh, John! You missed it, I was just telling Sherlock. You boys were on the telly, solving that case that the police couldn't figure out. You must be so proud—you saved that little girl and her whole family. I thought for sure you'd go out to celebrate, have a nice meal."

Sherlock gave her a completely undeserved glare and then pounded up the stairs. John ran up behind him, planning to let him know that he had no reason to be rude to their landlady. Mrs. Hudson herself was undeterred; as Sherlock swept through the door into the flat, John at his heels, she called up behind them, "Oh, are you going to celebrate with dinner at home? Get some takeaway and maybe some nice champagne?"

John closed the flat door and swallowed. He had no intention of answering Mrs. Hudson, but he ran through several responses in his head, things he could say to let Sherlock know what he thought. _Dinner is a good idea. Dinner sounds lovely. Dinner with champagne sounds romantic._ He glanced over to gauge how Sherlock might respond to any of them and Sherlock scoffed. "Sounds like one of your dates," he said, his voice venomous, and turned his back to John as he removed his scarf and gloves.

John's optimism fled. He shrugged out of his own coat and looked around the flat. "I wouldn't bring a date here for dinner. It's a mess." He threw his keys and phone onto the table in the sitting room—presumably, that would be the spot where he would eat his romantic dinner with his imaginary date, if the table weren't covered in papers, three empty cans of paint and a collection of used tissues sealed in zippered plastic bags. "I get the first shower," he muttered, and headed toward his room to get a change of clothes. "I'm not sure how you managed to stay so clean after that alley chase. You even smell good still." That would've tipped his hand, he thought, if Sherlock ever bothered to think about anything beyond himself.

When John came back downstairs a minute later, Sherlock was still standing in the same spot in the sitting room, staring at nothing. John sighed. "You should at least take your coat off," he said as he passed by on his way to the bathroom.

He took his time in the shower; when he'd first come home from Afghanistan he'd had a hard time shaking the habit of two-minute military showers, but by now he was once again comfortable dawdling as he washed, particularly when it gave him time away from his infuriating flatmate. He soaped his hair twice, to be sure he got all the mud out of it, and finally turned the water off only when it began to grow cold. 

By the time he had dressed in a t-shirt and pajama bottoms, he had almost convinced himself that eating beans and toast and drinking a beer while curled up in his chair would be just as enjoyable as the romantic dinner he had briefly imagined. He could start making notes for his new blog entry and Sherlock could explain all the details of the case that he'd missed. That was what they did, after all—that was their life together. What would a romantic meal with Sherlock even look like? The whole idea was ridiculous. He pulled his dressing gown on and tried to put the entire thought behind him. He and Sherlock had a perfectly fine relationship as it was, and thinking about taking it further was an exercise in futility.

He wandered through the kitchen, noticing that Sherlock appeared to have found something to eat, if the empty takeaway containers piled on the worktop were any indication. He didn't think they'd had any still-edible leftovers in the fridge, which had returned to its previous state of neglect and decay within a few days of the soup incident, so he must have had something delivered. John sniffed—Chinese?—and followed his nose out into the sitting room, half-expecting to find Sherlock standing in the same spot, still wearing his coat.

John stopped dead in his tracks at the sight that greeted him. Sherlock was not wearing his coat, or his suit jacket for that matter. He'd stripped down to his purple shirt and trousers and had rolled up his sleeves, as if in preparation to work. And work he had—while John had showered, Sherlock had not only cleared off the table in the sitting room, but filled it up again; it was set with plates, utensils and wine glasses for two, a candle, and—"What's that?" 

Sherlock gave him a brief glance and then returned his attention to the glass he was filling. "It's a tablecloth, John. Please tell me you are familiar with its use."

The sarcasm brought John only partway out of his stupor. "Yeah, I—where...?" He trailed off. He was afraid to think about where Sherlock might have put everything that had been on the table a few minutes ago, and he was absolutely certain that they had not had that crisp white tablecloth in their flat this morning. He doubted it was possible to order a tablecloth along with Chinese food. Maybe Mrs. Hudson had brought it up and cleaned off the table? And set it with—no, she would've had matching china, not the mish-mash of dishes currently on display. This was all Sherlock's doing. Sherlock had—

John found himself rooted to the spot, blinking in astonishment. He wondered if this was how Sherlock felt when he encountered new data that didn't compute with all the facts he had known up until then. 

Sherlock finished pouring the wine—champagne? Yes, champagne—and spun on his heel to face John, an open grin on his face. He held the bottle out as if for John to inspect the vintage and John stared at him, still trying to process the entire scene. Sherlock blinked back at him, once, and then stiffened, his usual easy grace vanishing in the space of a heartbeat. He clutched the bottle against his torso, then turned his head frantically from side to side as if looking for a place to hide it. "I just—we don't—never mind, I—"

Sherlock's flustered stuttering broke John free of his paralysis. He reached out and grabbed Sherlock's wrist with his right hand and the neck of the champagne bottle in his left. "Hey. It's okay, don't you dare try to squirm out of this now. This is perfect."

He tugged the bottle from Sherlock's hand and set it on the table next to him. He could feel Sherlock trembling where John gripped his wrist, so he let go and took a step back. Since he'd waited this long it wouldn't kill him to take this slow, give Sherlock a chance to adjust.

Sherlock squared his shoulders back and lifted his chin; John could see him getting himself back under control. He'd seen him do that before but never appreciated the effort it took. Now he knew, because he felt as nervous as Sherlock looked, but the difference was that Sherlock had actually taken the risk while John had cowered and avoided making the first move. _He set up a date for us. This is our first date._ He grinned at Sherlock and waved his hand toward the table, perfectly set and ready for the two of them. "Dinner?" he asked, and Sherlock smiled.


	5. First Kiss

Dinner was perfect. John wasn't sure what he ate, afterwards, because all he remembered was that he and Sherlock kept stealing bits of food off each other's plates and giggling about it. Which wasn't unusual behavior for the two of them, honestly, but now that they had officially decided that they were going to have a date, sharing food took on a whole new significance, at least in John's head. They sat next to each other at the table, rather than across, and bumped knees and elbows more than strictly necessary.

Sherlock had only one glass of champagne. John noticed that he sipped it slowly, making it last through the whole meal and beyond. He was never a big drinker, John knew, but he seemed to be going extra slowly tonight. Probably so he could keep a clear head to catalog and analyze every minute of the evening. John himself had already polished off two glasses and poured a third. He took a long sip of it and set it down. He didn't want to be tipsy. He wasn't sure exactly what Sherlock thought a date might entail besides dinner, but John thought it should at least include kissing, at a minimum. And since Sherlock had taken the first step with dinner, it was only fair that he now take some initiative.

"That was a good meal, Sherlock. Excellent champagne."

Sherlock smiled and ran one finger up along the stem of his glass. "Yes. Thank you."

"A good first date," John continued. "But I never consider it an excellent first date unless it ends with a kiss."

He watched Sherlock swallow and quickly nod. "I think we could manage to be excellent together."

John grinned at him and put his hand on the table, palm up. Sherlock placed his hand atop John's with no hesitation. John thought they felt equally sweaty—he wondered if they were nervous about the same things. He threaded his fingers up through Sherlock's and squeezed. Sherlock squeezed back and shifted his body so he was sitting closer. Now or never, John thought. He twisted slightly to his right; Sherlock skidded his chair a few inches along the floor so they were directly facing one another. John wasn't sure which of them leaned in first—maybe they both did, maybe they were that in tune with each other. Sherlock's lips were a little dry, and he didn't open his mouth at all. John didn't either—he had a feeling this was all very new for Sherlock, and he didn't want to overwhelm him by going too fast. So a dry-lipped, close-mouthed kiss—that was fine. It was a nice first kiss. He pressed his lips a little more firmly against Sherlock's and then sat back, eager to see Sherlock's reaction.

Sherlock blinked and then lifted his eyes to meet John's. John raised his eyebrows questioningly and Sherlock pulled those narrow, dry lips of his in for a moment, biting at them, and then blurted, "I thought it would be better than that."

"You—what?"

Sherlock flushed, clearly aware that what he'd said had been a bit not good, but he didn't back down. "I—I may have spent some time imagining how this might happen. And it wasn't anything like this."

"Really." John sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "And how exactly did you imagine this would happen?" 

"I imagined it would be a bit more...ardent."

"Ardent?" 

"It means—"

"I know what it means," John growled, and watched Sherlock lean forward at fraction at the sound. "So, what did you think would happen? Would I throw myself across the table at you?"

Sherlock's eyes darted to the table and then refocused on John. "Er, no, but that would work. If you want to try it."

John laughed. "No. I want to know exactly what you imagined."

"Well." Sherlock cleared his throat and adjusted the cuffs of his jacket, which he'd put back on when they sat down to eat. John felt severely underdressed in his pajamas and dressing gown. "There were a number of scenarios, but the one that was most persistent involved the wall."

"The wall?" John glanced around the room, wondering which wall Sherlock was talking about. Was one of them particularly sexy? He frowned at the skull picture and turned back to Sherlock for an answer.

"Yes. I thought you would probably surprise me—though that part's not necessary, now that I know your intentions—and you'd throw me up against the wall and kiss me senseless."

"Throw you up against the wall and kiss you senseless," John repeated. He stood up before he even realized his own intention to do so, turning in a circle to again examine the walls of the flat. Sherlock's idea was definitely appealing, but— "We don't have a free wall anyplace in this flat."

"Hmm?" Sherlock blinked and John was quite certain he'd been momentarily lost in imagining their wall kiss without actually factoring in the data provided by the permanently unkempt state of their flat.

"Every square inch of wall has something hanging on it or is blocked by furniture or a bookcase or random piles of your mess."

"My mess?"

John nodded. He made a full turn again, slowly, suspecting that Sherlock was staring at his arse even as he was looking at the walls. "I'm not the one that still hasn't unpacked boxes from when we moved in."

Sherlock gave an indignant snort and stood up abruptly. He pointed across the room at the wall next to the door. "That one."

"All right. Move the box of crap that's sitting in front of it."

"It's not crap. Those are my magazines." 

John stared at Sherlock and very deliberately licked his lips. Sherlock's eyes widened and then he scrambled across the room, nearly tripping over the edge of the rug in his haste. He bent and started to pull the box away from the wall; the tattered cardboard flap pulled off in his hand. He tossed it to the side and bent to lift the box.

John felt a pang of regret. The box was obviously heavy, over-packed as it was with thirty-year-old magazines that were of no possible use to anyone. "Wait, let me help. Don't throw your back out."

"I got it," Sherlock said, and John winced as he hefted the box without bending his knees or using anything close to proper lifting technique. "Open the door."

"What, are you going to just toss them in the hall?" He pulled open the door and stepped out of Sherlock's way.

"Temporarily. Don't worry, they won't be there long." He stepped out into the hallway and dropped the box to the ground. "Just give me a second." For some reason Sherlock pulled his phone from his jacket pocket and snapped a series of photos of the magazines in the box. He swiped through a few screens on the phone and then squinted at John. "How much do you estimate that box weighs?"

"You're the one who just lifted it—how should I know?"

Sherlock frowned at the box for a moment before rapidly typing something into his phone. 

"What are you doing? I thought we were kissing." He knew Sherlock could be easily distracted but this was ridiculous.

"Done!" Sherlock clicked off his phone and dropped it back into his pocket. "I put them on ebay. I have some very collectible issues in there, you know."

"Wha—no, I don't care." John shook his head and reached out to grab Sherlock by the arm. "Get back in here. There's a wall waiting for you to be slammed up against it."

"Maybe not actually slammed," Sherlock said, though he let John pull him back inside willingly enough.

"Gentle slamming," John assured him. He nudged the door shut with his foot and realized they could've used the door for kissing, but at least now one small section of the flat was less cluttered.

Sherlock glanced at the empty wall and then back at John. "So...."

"Mm-hmm," John replied. He squared his shoulders, lifted his chin, and stepped close to put both hands on Sherlock's chest. He spread his palms over the lapels of his jacket, letting his thumbs graze the soft cotton of the shirt beneath it. His instinct was to caress the smooth fabric but instead he pushed, putting about half his weight into driving Sherlock toward the wall. Sherlock didn't resist at all; he took two short steps backward and hit the wall with an exaggerated exhalation. John tried not to react too strongly to the sound, or to the warmth of Sherlock's breath rushing out over his forehead—they were just going to kiss right now, and he had no idea what else Sherlock might want to do. "Am I doing what you imagined?"

Sherlock nodded but said, "Shh. Don't talk about what you're doing. Just do it."

John took a final steadying breath and then tipped his head up to reach Sherlock's mouth. He had not kissed a man before, and had only rarely wanted to, but he'd spent considerable time over the last few months thinking about kissing Sherlock. Sherlock let his lips part immediately, at only the slightest pressure of John's tongue. He tasted like the dinner they had just eaten, and John was grateful for the champagne, which made a much better kissing appetizer than beer. John let out the smallest huff of breath and Sherlock responded, giving a little moan back and tentatively brushing John's tongue with his own. The kiss was still slow and timid on both their parts, but far superior to the closed-mouth peck they'd shared at the table. 

Sherlock broke it off first, turning his head to the side to say, "John."

"Better?" John asked. Sherlock nodded and John grinned. He might not have ever kissed a man but he had no doubts about his own skill in general. The only differences from kissing a woman were that Sherlock wasn't wearing lipstick and was a little bit too tall. John raised his hands higher and gently pressed down on Sherlock's shoulders, encouraging him to slouch. Sherlock slid down the wall a few inches, evening up their height. Brilliant. This wall thing really was a good idea. 

This time Sherlock slipped his tongue into John's mouth first. John ran his own tongue against the tip of Sherlock's and then opened his mouth wider, letting Sherlock press deeper in exploration. Sherlock took advantage of the opportunity, filling John's mouth completely. John tilted his head to allow him more access and oh—. That was quite a bit more arousing than he'd anticipated. He shifted his hips back so Sherlock wouldn't feel his response through his thin pajama bottoms and sucked lightly at Sherlock's thrusting tongue, wondering how long it would take before they ended up on the sofa or upstairs in John's room. He wasn't sure if he could make it that far.

He ran his hands up along Sherlock's neck, over his ears and into his hair. He'd thought about this a lot, too: running his fingers through those curls, feeling their thick silkiness glide across his skin. He didn't know if Sherlock would like it if he pulled his hair, so instead he rubbed his fingertips against his scalp. He opened his eyes to gauge Sherlock's reaction and found that Sherlock's eyes were open, too. Had he had them open the whole time they were kissing, and was John misinterpreting the expression in them, or was Sherlock really overwhelmed to the point of being terrified?

John dropped his hands from Sherlock's head and stepped back from the kiss.

Sherlock took a gulping gasp of air and then immediately collected himself. "It's okay. We can keep going." His voice sounded almost normal, but John knew him too well to be fooled. 

"Sherlock, have you ever kissed anyone before?"

Sherlock pressed his lips together and shook his head. 

"Have you ever been on a date before?"

"Not...by your definition of such."

"Okay...." John squinted at him. "I think we should slow down a little."

"Slow down?" Sherlock straightened up so he was no longer leaning on the wall. "We already live together. I can see you naked in the loo through the door in my bedroom. Why should we slow down?"

John didn't react to the taunting challenge in Sherlock's voice. "I just think we should spread this out over more than an hour or two. It'll be more enjoyable that way."

"You don't need to coddle me, John. I may not have dated and kissed but I do have experience." 

John bit his lip and nodded. He had a good idea what type of experience a pretty, sharp-cheekboned former drug addict like Sherlock would have, but that was a discussion for another time. "Honestly, Sherlock, this was a bit of a surprise for me tonight, too. I wouldn't mind a little time to process this before we go any further." 

Sherlock looked ready to argue or plead, but John put one hand on his wrist and after a moment Sherlock gave a short nod. He turned his wrist to stroke his fingers across John's palm and said, "Tomorrow." 

John felt a rush go through him, more at the tone of voice than the touch or the word. He nodded silently and stepped back. "I don't know about you but I'm going to have another glass of champagne and then fall asleep in front of the telly." He turned toward the table that still held the remnants of dinner, and heard Sherlock's phone ding loudly—not his usual text message tone.

Sherlock pulled the phone from his pocket and glanced down at it. "I've got a bid on my magazines," he announced. He grinned at John, his whole body seeming to light up with the smile. "So it seems the cleaning was doubly beneficial. I got to kiss you and make some money on the side."


	6. Sherlock's Room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, I think I accidentally went from mature to a little bit explicit.

John had been at work for only an hour the next day when he got the text.

_\--What time do you expect to be home? –SH_

Considering that he hadn't bothered to emerge from his room while John got ready and ate breakfast that morning, Sherlock couldn't have been too anxious for him to return. Not that John expected him to change into an early-morning person just because they'd kissed, but it would've been nice to have seen him before he left, if only to reassure himself that last night had really happened, and that Sherlock didn't regret it. 

He pursed his lips as he typed out a reply. _\--Same as always. Scheduled till 3:30, probably won't get out till 4:30ish._ After a moment's thought, he sent a second message. _\--Why?_

The response was immediate. _\--Just checking. –SH_

Either Sherlock was looking forward to tonight's—second date? Were they dating now?—or he had started some toxic experiment and didn't want John to find out about it. The fact that John didn't hear from him again for the rest of the day make him suspect the latter was the more likely option.

Somehow John managed to see all his patients and finish his paperwork by 3:30, and was back on Baker Street before 4. As he climbed the stairs to the flat, he felt strangely empty-handed. He should be bringing something to Sherlock, if this was a date—flowers, candy, some unusual bacterial culture from the lab attached to the clinic. He stopped on the landing and fought down a surge of panic. What the hell was he doing? What were they doing? And so what if this was a date? He didn't get nervous about dates. But this was a date with Sherlock. This was important. 

He took a deep breath and opened the door, half-expecting to find Sherlock waiting, but there was no sign of him. Maybe John should've texted—this was a little earlier than he normally got home. He dropped his keys and wallet on the table next to his chair. "Hello?" he called through the kitchen. "I'm—"

The door to Sherlock's room opened before John could finish his declaration and Sherlock emerged. His expression was perhaps a bit more bashful than usual, but he was wearing his normal attire of a dressing gown thrown over a dress shirt and trousers. John was momentarily disappointed that he hadn't made an effort to dress up at all, but then remembered that he had been the one wearing pajamas for their first kiss yesterday, so he had no room to complain.

Sherlock pulled his bedroom door closed and swept into the kitchen, dressing gown billowing behind him. John met him halfway; they both paused in the middle of the kitchen, standing on opposite sides of the cluttered table. Sherlock smiled and clasped his hands behind his back. "So, how was your day?"

John wrinkled his nose at the question, trying to recall if Sherlock had ever asked about his day before. Maybe if he'd been trying to draw attention away from some disaster he'd caused he might, but that didn't seem to be the case today. The flat wasn't any messier than it had been last night. The tablecloth was still on the table back in the sitting room, and amazingly nothing had been piled on top of it. John looked over the contents of the kitchen table, which held its usual array of chemistry equipment, but nothing jumped out as immediately dangerous or toxic. There was an empty bottle of lemon juice next to the sink, but though God knew what Sherlock had been doing with a whole bottle of lemon juice, it hardly qualified as a mess. So, no, Sherlock wasn't trying to distract John with his hesitant smile and mundane small talk, which must mean that he was...well, maybe not flirting, but at least trying to be more attentive than usual.

John smiled back at him. "My day was fine. Glad to be home, though."

"Any interesting cases?"

"No, not really." He knew Sherlock had fairly high standards when it came to what was interesting at the clinic—the run of the mill flu and strep throat cases he'd seen today were not up to those standards. "What about you? Have you been working on a case?"

"Er, no, not really. Not a case, per se."

John gave him a puzzled look. "So what have you been doing all day?"

"I had a project I was working on. I—I'll show it to you a little later. We—oh, should I have ordered dinner again?"

"It's a bit early for dinner." John stepped around the table so they were both on the same side of the kitchen, near the sink. "Unless you're hungry?"

"Not really." Sherlock shook his head and pressed a hand to his stomach. "No, not hungry."

"Okay." John watched him for a moment as he rubbed his stomach and then slipped his hands down to fuss with the loose ties of his dressing gown. "Sherlock, are you nervous?"

"Nervous? Why would I be nervous?" He straightened up and gave John what was undoubtedly supposed to be a haughty stare but didn't stop fidgeting with his dressing gown. 

"No reason," John said, and took a step closer so he could reach out and put his hands over Sherlock's, stilling them. 

Sherlock met John's eyes, blinked once and then let out a long exhalation. "I'm not nervous," he said softly.

"Good," John replied. He let go of Sherlock's hands and ran his fingers up the arms of his dressing gown. The silky fabric felt even better against his skin than the suit coat had yesterday, but he didn't linger on it long. He settled his hands on Sherlock's jaw, fingertips brushing his ears. "Kiss?" he asked, because at the last moment he realized maybe the way to cure Sherlock's nervousness wasn't by ambushing him.

"God, yes," Sherlock said, his voice rumbling through John's fingers. John leaned in closer, wanting to press himself against Sherlock so he could feel the rumble of that voice everywhere. He didn't let himself, though, but then Sherlock stepped forward and they were touching, head to toe, lips joined together, knees bumping, hips and chests eagerly meeting. John could feel both of their hearts beating, Sherlock's going faster, though his own was trying its best to catch up.

If Sherlock had been nervous, he conquered it quickly. John took the lead, gently teasing his tongue against Sherlock's. He had planned to keep the kiss more restrained than yesterday's, to avoid overwhelming Sherlock, but Sherlock didn't let him. He squirmed his body down lower so they were almost the same height, and pulled John even closer, wrapping his long arms around him. John's reluctance to let Sherlock feel every bit of his body lasted only until he discovered that Sherlock was just as undeniably aroused as he was. 

He pulled back briefly to catch his breath and marvel at the fact that Sherlock had taken less than a day to become a master at kissing. He shouldn't have been surprised—Sherlock was always good at everything he tried. John's only regret was that they hadn't tried this earlier.

"Come back here," Sherlock growled, and John obeyed, letting Sherlock catch his mouth with his again. Sherlock started moving his hands, stroking one into John's hair and the other along John's hip. John added a bit of full-body thrusting, which Sherlock eagerly returned. 

"Bedroom?" John gasped, when it became obvious that what they were doing had gone quite a bit past kissing some time ago. 

Sherlock panted an agreement and took a sideways step without unwrapping himself from John, which was fine, except he was trying to drag them toward the wrong bedroom.

"Not your room. Your room is—" John stopped. Sherlock's room was a lot closer; John could put up with a few dirty clothes and snack remnants if he had to. They could open the window if it smelled too bad.

"Trust me," Sherlock said, and separated himself from John long enough to pull him through the kitchen and down the hall. He glanced at John as he put his hand on the doorknob, and John thought he saw a hint of the earlier nervousness return, but then Sherlock pushed open the door and stepped inside.

John took a step to follow him and then stopped. "You cleaned."

"Of course I did. I had to. My bed is bigger."

"Okay." John reached up and yanked at Sherlock's shirt collar, pulling him into another kiss. Frankly, John didn't care how big the bed was as long as he and Sherlock were both on it. He didn't even know what they were going to do on the bed, but any uncertainty he felt was completely overruled by the desire to be doing _something_ with Sherlock as soon as possible.

Sherlock broke off the kiss this time, pulling back so he could kick off his shoes and wriggle out of his dressing gown. John stepped out of his own shoes and unbuttoned his shirt, looking around the room as he undressed. It was brighter than he remembered—the curtains had been opened, and were billowing gently in the breeze. And Sherlock had done more than simply move piles of junk from one location to another; he had really cleaned his room. There were no stacks of magazines or papers on the floor and the tops of the chest of drawers and wardrobe had been cleared off and what remained was neatly organized. The display case in the corner and the pictures on the wall had been dusted and the rug had fresh Hoover marks on it. John could smell the lingering scent of lemon juice. That was why it had been out—Sherlock had used it to clean. The bed was made and empty of everything but two pillows and a neatly-tucked blanket; Sherlock sat down on the edge of it and beckoned to John. 

John went willingly, aware that they had now moved on to areas with which Sherlock doubtless had more experience. John was fine with that. He'd let Sherlock do whatever he wanted. He'd thought about this a lot since moving in with Sherlock, and decided it didn't matter what parts went where, as long as it felt good. And John knew that a lot of things could feel good. 

He stepped in between Sherlock's legs and Sherlock reached up to push the shirt from John's shoulders. John let it fall to the floor and started to unbutton Sherlock's shirt while Sherlock's hands strayed lower, stopping when they reached John's belt. John nodded and Sherlock unfastened it, then undid the zip on his flies. John took a deep breath and then pushed his own trousers down.

Sherlock leaned back on the bed, eyes flicking up and down John's mostly-undressed body. John stood still in front of him, letting himself be examined. 

"Take the rest of it off," Sherlock said, and John did, still standing between Sherlock's spread legs. The weave of Sherlock's trousers was slightly rough against the bare skin of John's thighs; he concentrated on it so he wouldn't feel self-conscious under Sherlock's analytical stare. For his part, Sherlock seemed almost as interested in the small bullet scar on John's shoulder as he was in John's cock, but of course Sherlock had a cock of his own; John could see its full outline through the tailored cut of his trousers.

After a moment, Sherlock dropped his hand to his own waistband and John stepped back to give him room to finish undressing. When they were both naked, Sherlock reached for John again and John followed, climbing onto the bed next to him. "On our sides," Sherlock suggested, and John rolled onto his side so they were facing each other. Sherlock shimmied his hips closer and then wrapped his hand around both their cocks. John shuddered in pleasure at the contact. Sherlock hand was huge, like no hand John had ever felt before, which might have been strange but instead was exhilarating. Unlike their first kiss, Sherlock showed no hesitation and knew exactly what to do—when to pull, when to twist, when to slow down and when to speed up. John wriggled his upper body closer so they could kiss at the same time. 

Sherlock gasped into his mouth and John pulled back again. "Is that okay?" 

Sherlock nodded so violently the bed shook. "Yes. It's—more." 

John wasn't sure if that was a description or a request, but he kissed him again, running his left hand along Sherlock's ribs and over his back and down across the top of his arse. He was lying on his right side, but he was able to move his right hand enough so he could tweak Sherlock's nipple, which made Sherlock whimper and briefly falter in his tempo on their cocks.

"Good?" John breathed into his mouth.

"Mm." Sherlock jerked his whole body toward John and resumed stroking their cocks, using his free hand to spread the bit of wetness that was now coming from them both. It made his hand slide more easily up and down, although John had also enjoyed the rougher friction of earlier. He liked it all—Sherlock could do anything he wanted and John would enjoy it. He had known that from almost the moment they'd met.

"Sherlock," he said, feeling the sudden urge to tell him how he felt. "Sherlock." It was the only word he could think of, but it seemed to be enough. 

Sherlock responded to his name, opening his mouth against John's, the actual mechanism of kissing abandoned in favor of moaning. John didn't think there were any words, but there didn't need to be. Why would they need words when they had touch, when they had lips and tongues and hands and skin and everything—everything. "Sherlock!" he said again, a warning this time, but Sherlock just flicked his thumb over the tip of John's cock and then held still as John emptied himself over his hand.

"Sorry," he said, when he could speak, because he thought he should've given more warning.

Sherlock shook his head and shifted his grip so he was only holding himself. "Kiss." 

John complied, thrusting his tongue roughly into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock groaned and his hand sped up and John tried to look down without breaking the kiss but he couldn't see, so instead he watched Sherlock's face as he came—eyes squeezed shut, jaw rigid, brow wrinkled, and then his whole body relaxed and John slowly withdrew from their sticky embrace.

Sherlock kept his eyes closed for long enough that John started to wonder if he had done something wrong, but then Sherlock's breathing evened out and he opened his eyes and grinned. "That was even better than kissing you," he said, and rolled away from John, onto his back. He sat up and reached for the box of tissues that was on the table next to the bed. "Sorry about the mess."

"It's okay," John replied, and flopped onto his back as well. He knew living with Sherlock would be messy, but this new development promised to be the best mess of all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it! Let me know what you think! And come visit me on [tumblr](http://missdaviswrites.tumblr.com)!
> 
>  
> 
> As a side note, I realized as I wrote the last few chapters that their first date in this story could more or less be the backstory for how they started dating in my longfic [Breakable](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2522717/chapters/5605520). There are a few small details that got switched, but I guess I must really headcanon that their first date is dinner in their flat. If you haven't read that fic, you should know that it is...pretty much the opposite of this one. :)


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